Father and Son
by Pale-Face
Summary: How the Trickster King got his name. "I wished to inform you that if you ever find yourself with even the faintest notion of one day taking my place on the throne of Faerie, you are sadly mistaken." His low whisper sent a chill through his young son. One shot.


This is something I wrote a while back, based on Puck's outburst by the lake in book 4. Forgive my Shakespearean attempts and any mistakes, this is unbeata'd. All genuine 17th century insults though! Rated T for a reason.

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He was just five years old when his father came to see him.

He was sitting on his bed fashioning a spear with a penknife his uncle Thorn had given him. The blade was simple, with a long stag horn handle but, it was his _first_ knife. The work was slow as he kept having to push his untrimmed, buttery curls out of his eyes. His green orbs narrowed in frustration as small hands set down the knife and stick and attempted to remove the curls from his face. After doing so, he once again set out sharpening the stick into a weapon.

Simultaneously, his toes were curled around a slingshot and he was attempting to use it with his feet. The young fey was so focused on his tasks that he hardly noticed his father, Oberon, enter the room. The hard soled leather boots clunked against the wooden panels. It was only when the noise stopped that Puck looked up at him. "Good afternoon, father" he said respectfully.

The big man nodded, his eyes ever-grave. He regarded his son with a mix of distaste and curiosity when he saw his feet and hands working independently. Puck started when his father uncurled his toes roughly from the toy and and fired it across the room. "What is that you are doing? Stop it this instant and respect your elders. Look at me."

Unsettled, his son looked down at his work and gently laid it aside. His father's voice made him jump. "I told you to _look_ at me." His son's reaction only made the King's distaste towards the boy grow. He had his owlish green eyes trained on the big man who loomed over him.

Oberon's eyes flickered towards the mock crown that lay on the bed post. Puck had gotten it as an honorary gift at the spring aonach*. All day he had watched his son wander around the fair with a mischievous glint in his eye and a crown atop his small golden head. He hated it, the sight of it made him seethe, he needed to put a stop to it.

"Boy, I wished to inform you that if you _ever_ find yourself with even the _faintest_ notion of one day taking my place on the throne of Faerie, you are sadly mistaken." His low whisper sent a chill through his young son. The boy recoiled a fraction, but his father grabbed his tiny arm and held fast to it.

"I knew from the moment you were born you were uselessly weak but your mother _pleaded_ with me not to kill you. As you were my heir, it would not sit _well_ with the court. It is for **that** reason and that reason **alone** that you are sheltering under my roof and eating from my table. You are nothing more than a parasite to me. No son of mine would be the feckless cur I see before me. I would sooner burn the kingdom to the ground, rot the crops and fill the ground with the bodies of the peasants than see an arrant, vile worm rule over it. Thou'art poison to my blood, unfit for any place but hell. If by some unhappy trick you come to sit upon my seat of power, you will be cast out within a half-month."

Under his father's white knuckled grasp, the young fey had now lost all feeling in his hand. His arm was throbbing under the older man's grasp, but he knew not to mention it. He tried to stop the shivering and whimpering he felt building up inside of him. He had felt the thwack of the willow across his back before and knew what his father's attitude was to crying. It was meek, womanish and should be beaten out.

Staring into his father's dark, hateful gaze, he felt a pressure against the back of his eyes. His bottom lip pushed out in a feeble attempt to stop the flow of tears; fearing the outcome could he not... He had disappointed his father, failed as a prince. He was worthless.

His throat suddenly began to close in, what would happen now? Would he be locked in the dungeon to rot? Would he be cast onto the streets to live amongst the paupers? He would miss his mother terribly, he loved his mama, she cared for him. Perhaps she would visit him, when he was exiled? He would miss Mustardseed too. His brother was two now and he couldn't really talk. He was good to play with though, until he cried, but he didn't do that very often now.

Having not had a response from his son, Oberon gripped his frail shoulders and shook them. "Do you understand me!?" he roared.

Puck nodded mutely, rubbing his tiny wrist, worried his hand would fall off from lack of blood.

Oberon raised a fist to the small boy. "DO. YOU. HEAR. ME?"

"Y-Yes father." He whimpered, shying back from the raised fist.

A loud thwack was rang out as the King slapped the child hard on the cheek. "Insolent mutt" he growled "You will address me by my title."

Gripping his stinging, red cheek, Puck could no longer hold in his tears that streamed from his eyes. They were tightly shut in apprehension of another strike. There would be none.

With a thunk that echoed around the empty room, the heavy metal handle clunked against the closed door. All of a sudden the prince's room seemed a lot bigger and darker. He was bad. He knew that. He had disappointed his father, and that was bad. His mama would be sad. That was worse. He had tried to be a good boy, he didn't know what he had done wrong... Maybe he was just born bad. The thought made him whimper more, as he clutched his bright red cheek and curled in on himself. He lay there, silently crying, unmoving, until his mother found him a while later.

The broken crown cast a long dark shadow on the floor where she entered. Spying her son's wet tears and foetal position, her face creased and she gathered him to her. Puck clasped tightly to the folds of her dress with wet, snotty hands. The slap on his cheek was still visible. As soon as she picked him up, he began to bawl. She rocked him. When he calmed down, she sang songs from the homeland and he quietened.

Satisfied her little boy had recovered, she brushed the honey curls away from his face and kissed the place where her husband had struck him. "What did he say, my love, my clever prince?" she cooed.

"He said.. that I shamed him. I was never to be King, that I was a feckless cur and then.. he hit me."

Holding him close, she pitied her son. She knew all too well the brutality and ferocity of her husband. But he was wrong, Puck would be a great King one day, better than his beastly father. She knew it, but he may never achieve it under the influence of Oberon's selfish fears.

She gazed into her son's green eyes, filled with worry instead of the usual light and mischief that resided there. This was not the burden to place on a five year old child. She removed his thumb gently from his mouth, before looking deep into his eyes.

"You will be a great King one day." She told him proudly. "The best, better than your father. Pay no heed to his horrible words, my son, you will be great one day, until then-". She reached down for the crown that lay discarded on the floor and placed it atop his curly mane. "-I name thee the Trickster King, Lord of all mischief, trickery and impish behaviour. Wear it proudly..." Her voice instilled him with great confidence. " And one day you will be Puck, King of Faerie and Tricksters alike."

Puck sat up a little straighter then, and his round little stomach became a little more prominent under his forest green tunic. "I love you Mama" he said, examining the crown.

"And I you."

With a kiss to the head, she left him, to be replaced mere moments later by Mustard. The younger prince toddled into the room, hardly upright. The newly crowned 'king' picked up his brother and sat him in his lap. "I'm a king." He whispered to him.

Mustardseed's blue eyes lit up at his brother's words and he smiled ignorantly up at him. He began sucking on Puck's blistered thumb making the elder smile. It was a crooked smile, missing several teeth.

The Trickster King was born.

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Congrats, you made it this far! Hopefully you're finished and not just here for the asterix. :)

*Aonach (ay-nok): Fair. uses Irish as faerie language so I like to drop in bits. Faerie culture is a favourite of mine. So don't be alarmed if you see fey or fae used instead of faerie.

This is just my take on Puck's coronation as the Trickster King. I would have liked to have seen more of Puck and his father in the series.

That's about it for this A/N. Reviews very much appreciated :) ( Constructive criticism too- within reason).

-Pale Face


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